


For The Lack of a Better Word,

by Mad_Merry



Category: Assassin's Creed, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Des is an angsty butthole, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:26:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4156944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Merry/pseuds/Mad_Merry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn’t dead. That’s where it all boiled inside of him.  And sometimes you need someone to remind you just that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For The Lack of a Better Word,

**Author's Note:**

> HEY LOOK I'M NOT DEAD

Desmond had an overwhelming amount of _ferocity_ inside him; a brimming sort of bitterness that left him worse than when he’d entered the brotherhood, the thin line of hope in acceptance he had held onto in his loneliness had vanished and left him as the same as before. A man of no legion; a nomad avoiding emotional commitment to tear him down once again. He was still lonely; especially now with the world thinking he was a dead man rotting away in a futuristic cave. But he supposed that’s what you pay for being a savior with no name.

No remembrance. 

He wasn’t dead; that’s where it all boiled inside of him. He had awoken, hand screaming with pain and a cry for someone on his lips before he realized he was left there. Left on the cold floor to disintegrate into remnants of clothing and bone. As if he were nothing. It’s a hard reality to swallow maybe you were never valued; your blood was, your DNA that makes you you is nothing but what kept people you thought were your friends close to you. A pawn. Always a fucking pawn.

He thought those people–his father supported him. Not just their cause. 

He supposed it wasn’t the first time he’s been proven wrong. 

It’s times like this that those thoughts come up; the late hours falling into morning when he should be sleeping. Instead he’s rolling a never lit cigarette between his fingers, staring down at the bright colors and lights of Seattle. So much like New York but so different. So much more humble. It’s night like these he can’t shut his mind off, plaguing him with whys and what ifs and how comes. Thoughts that make him bore his gaze into the ceiling as if it’ll give him all the answers. The bitterness festers in his stomach in those hours of the night, making him choke on emotions that he never truly released. Layers of hurt, confusion and utter malice.

Why was he not of value? Why was it just his DNA? Why was he the reason a man gave up his life for the same cause?

Why was being blessed so fucking cursing. He sighs, golden brown eyes noting the soft cloud of vapor from his lips. Washington weather was so damn frigid, he didn’t understand who could live with it being so cold all the time. Desmond gives a low shudder, toes curling against the cool air ghosting across his skin with a low curse. He should head inside, but the suns starting to rise and frankly even staying up all night has given him not exhaustion. And he’d rather not wake Delsin with the movement of the bed and his chilled skin touching the natives. He hates it when he does that. Giving up on his intention to smoke out his problems the once assassin flicks the unused bud into the damp streets below. Things are cancer sticks anyway.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been out here all night.” He turns at the warm voice, meeting sleepy pools of brown that look less than impressed with his sleeping habits.

“Okay I won’t tell you.” Desmond remarks, a low smirk gracing his lips before Delsin rolls his eyes, stepping out with him and shivering. 

“Jesus…autumns coming, I know that much.” Desmond hums in response, feeling muscles ease when the native’s arm brushes with his. Completely invading his personal face and spreading warmth throughout the area they make contact, making a different sort of heat bloom through out Desmonds’ chest.

The thoughts retreat at the sense of tranquility–at least what he hopes is tranquility. Delsin just had that effect on him; at lessening the bitterness in his heart and making him feel like himself. Maybe because they shared so many traits. So many insecurities and loss of life. Being disappointments for following their hearts and hopes. He’d always remember that day he met Delsin; those eyes had practically _screamed_ at him; wounds fresh from a sort of loss Desmond has felt in so many times, in so many bodies.

The loss of a loved one. Those dark irises had been flooding with a fire fueled by a still lingering pain, slitting down narrowly to examine him with that damn beanie threatening to fall of his head, his warmth seeping through Desmond at their close proximity from their fall. And they bonded; in a way that made the assassin fall in love before he even knew what happened. He had someone to retreat to, who understood him in a way only she had, who didn’t look at him with pity and embraced him with all his flaws and baggage. Because Delsin had his own ugly stories; his own skeletons that kept him up sometimes as well. What a sad and wonderful thing; to be brought together by your own loneliness and pain.

“You’re thinking pretty hard over there. Like you might bust something.” Delsins’ voice cuts into his mud pit of thoughts, gaining his attention and moving his tattooed arm aside to wiggle between him and the wood railing of their porch. “What are you thinking about?” His tone is casual, but soft as if they’ll disturb the morning bubble speaking above a murmur and break the stillness of the usually lively City. Creativity worn hands glide up his ribs, Delsins right hand lingering over his heartbeat, pressing into the cloth of his shirt as if the conduit can reach it before they meet behind his neck and let fingers tangle together to create a comfortable and familiar embrace. The sense of ease just grows at the familiar cloud of _Delsin_ ; full of smoke and autumn leaves, no matter how long he spent away from the sea there was always that small brine behind it. 

Scarred lips part to spill, pausing in an attempt to word what was going through his head in heavy swirls.

“Just…stuff.” Nice job, Miles. “The usual stuff.” Better. And there’s that understanding in Delsins gaze, eyes softening because he knows. He knows everything there is to know of how much of a mess Desmond really is. He poured his heart and soul out to the artist, prepared for rejection and isolation once again. 

But he just…gave the same thing right back. Fingers unfold behind his neck, his lovers thumbs brushing across his cheeks in gentle strokes, focus unrelenting on wilting away more of Desmond's’ walls, taking the daily guard down he puts around himself. So he leans into the touch, sighing out another evaporated breath as the natives face lights up with that damn grin of his. It hurt how much that put ease in his heart.

“Then let me distract you.” He murmurs, those brown pools darkening as lids droop, just barely brushing his lips with the assassins in a hairline touch. An invitation. An offer. And Desmond takes it, letting their kiss shove back the lingering thoughts of un-importance–of his value as a walking DNA vile instead of a person. Because here; with Delsin he was a person. He wasn’t a savior, he wasn’t an assassin. He was Des. Desmond who had his hair stroked while watching TV, Desmond who stole the covers and was teased for it the next morning. Who ate poptarts and held hands strolling through Seattle’s Plaza. He was Delsins’ Desmond. Frankly, there was no other Desmond to be.

“I love you.” He breathes against the rebels mouth, feeling the shift of his lips as he smiled and pecked his face, brushing over that damn scar of his until he met the tallers' jaw.

“I love you too.”

He lied. He was far from lonely.


End file.
